Coreene Callahan - Knight Avenged

***

Heart so heavy his chest hurt, Henrik finished lacing his tunic. Boot soles rasping against the dirt floor, he left his knives on the table, picked up Cosmina’s necklace, and turned toward the bed. The ancient disc that doubled as a key swung from a delicate chain made of silver links. Back and forth. To and fro. A pendulum of movement that sent him back to White Temple and the instant he’d first laid eyes on her.

So feisty. So full of life.

So goddamned beautiful, clothed in boy’s trews and a bad attitude.

His mouth curved. Remorse killed his amusement, filling his chest, squeezing around his heart, making it difficult to breathe as he tumbled back into the present. The necklace came back into focus. Delicate yet strong . . . just like Cosmina. And unlike him at the moment. Bowing his head, Henrik fought the claw of emotion—the need, the want, the god-awful yearning. Firelight flickered against the timber beam walls and off the silver links coiled in his palm, throwing light into the room, mocking him with a warmth he didn’t feel and in no way deserved. Comfort didn’t belong in his corner. Not anymore.

Not after what he’d done.

Raising his arms, Henrik cupped the back of his neck and pressed down. Taut muscles squawked. Pain streaked down his spine, then clawed across his lower back. He barely noticed. Was too busy telling himself to put his feet to good use and go. To head for the door, ’cause—God. He sure as hell shouldn’t be standing inside Cosmina’s cottage, occupying the same space, defiling her with his presence while longing to hold her close. Just as he had during the night when her nightmares arrived, and she’d fought demons he couldn’t see, never mind vanquish, for her.

His fault. Every terrible moment of it.

Putting her in Thrall had opened mental doors she’d shut long ago. Probing her mind to find what he needed had made it worse, unearthing memories, releasing her monsters—all the things Cosmina kept tucked away and struggled to forget. Things she no doubt didn’t want him to know. But it was too late. He’d seen her past, felt her fear in the wee hours, and held her close while she cried out in her sleep. Henrik closed his eyes as recall spun him around the lip of self-loathing. He shook his head, trying to banish the abhorrence, consoling himself with the fact he’d tried to help. Had done his utmost to banish the ghosts and ease her suffering. It hadn’t worked, so he’d wrapped his arms around her instead, whispered nonsense, stroked her hair and . . .

Hated himself the whole time for causing her pain.

Which meant he needed to leave. Right now. Before she woke to find him mooning over her like a lovesick lad. A clean break. A quick getaway. Both would be best—safer for her, more advisable for him to cut his losses and walk away while he could, but . . .

Deep-seated longing wouldn’t let him.

He needed to touch Cosmina one last time.

Drawn to her against his will, his feet took him to the side of her bed. Fast asleep now, red hair a tangled web around her head, she lay on her side, curled beneath the coverlet, face pale, body relaxed, and mind exhausted. Guilt tightened its grip. Henrik cleared his throat and, unable to help himself, reached for a lock of her hair. The soft strands clung to his fingertips, making his heart throb as he remembered. Her struggle. The gentle insistence he’d wielded to subdue her at the hot spring. Her slide into terrible dreams and restless slumber in the aftermath of mental conquest. Goddamn it, he was a first-rate bastard. The lowest of the low for using his magic against her. It didn’t matter he’d had little choice. The facts spoke for themselves and couldn’t be refuted—he’d entered her mind, gone against her wishes to retrieve information.

To save himself. To protect his comrades. For the goddess and the greater good.

He flexed his fingers, fisting his hand around the key. The metal dug into his palm, and Henrik swallowed a snarl. The greater good. Jesus. If only it were that simple. The end didn’t always justify the means. He knew that. And yet he’d done it anyway, cornering Cosmina, pulling the information he needed from her mind, cursing himself as she whispered his name, asking him to stop. He hadn’t listened, and that, more than anything, laid him low. Made him recoil inside even as he yearned for her forgiveness.

Another thing that would never come.

Aye, he’d been gentle. So what. Big deal. The manner of it didn’t matter. Leaving her unharmed wasn’t the point. Hurt took on many different forms, the physical kind just one of them. So nay, he didn’t deserve absolution. He had no right to ask for it and knew, beyond a shadow of doubt, Cosmina would never grant it. He’d wronged her. She would hold him accountable. But only if he braved her wrath and . . .

Stayed for the reckoning.

Surprisingly enough, the idea appealed to him. An angry Cosmina, after all, seemed better than the alternative: no Cosmina at all. But even as the thought chased its tail inside his head, tempting him to a dangerous degree, Henrik dismissed it. He couldn’t stay. She couldn’t come where he was going—into battle with the Druinguari—so he traced her cheek with his fingertip instead, memorizing every detail—the softness of her skin, the beauty of her face, the way she tasted along with the incredible way she fit in his arms. He lingered a moment longer, then turned away, and strode toward the table. And his weapons.

Time to go. Even less of it to waste.

The wildlife was getting restless outside.

He could tell by the pitch of his brothers-in-arms’ voices. The heavy stamp and claw of the horses’ hooves on the snowy ground too. His comrades awaited him in the clearing. Each was ready to ride, eager to fight, just five strides and one closed door away. But as Henrik strapped on the twin swords he favored and sheathed his knifes, he paused, his gaze on the piece of parchment he’d left on the tabletop. Small. Neatly folded. Ragged on one edge from being torn from the journal he liked to carry. Naught but crisp white corners and messy handwriting, an inadequate good-bye to the woman who now held his heart.

Henrik stared at the note a moment, wondering if he’d lost his mind. He shouldn’t leave it there. Should crumple the wretched thing into a ball and feed it to the fire. ’Twould be wiser, the kindest choice for Cosmina in the long run. She didn’t need to know how he felt. ’Twas the height of selfishness to leave her with the knowledge, never mind the burden.

Somehow, though, logic didn’t hold sway.

Right. Wrong. Neither mattered anymore.

In the end, it came down to one thing. An unforgivable, irrefutable fact. He didn’t want her to forget him. Needed to know she thought of him often—as often as he would her. So instead of picking up the missive and throwing it away, he unsheathed his favorite dagger—the one he carried next to his heart—set the weapon atop the parchment, then laid her necklace over both. An inadequate explanation anchored by a gift—a blade, expertly designed and exquisitely wrought, the only thing of worth he had to give. Leaving the offerings in the center of the table, he made for the exit. Flicking the handle, Henrik opened the door, and without looking back, latched it tightly behind him.

Standing in front of the fireplace wearing nothing but her rabbit-fur throw, Cosmina pulled the coverlet tighter around her. Flames licked between the logs, throwing heat into the room, warming her bare feet as the pelt settled against the nape of her neck. Soft fur against her skin—undeniable luxury, unerring comfort inside her cottage, a safe haven far from the dangers of the world. And yet, the idea of safety—of hearth and home, and all material goods she used to define it—didn’t soothe her in the usual ways. No pride for her sanctuary. No satisfaction at its warmth. Naught to ease her mind or calm the raging beat of her heart.